


Like Poison on My Tongue

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Dean, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, M/M, Mild Come Play, Pre-Stanford, Teen Sam Winchester, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes home drunk from celebrating his acceptance into Stanford. Ultra-angsty, guilty sex with Dean ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Poison on My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> So much love to ephermeralk (LJ) for the beta. Also, I wrote this about a year and a half ago, hope that doesn't show too bad. I've cleaned it up some and added more since then.

Sam makes an approving hum as he buries his head in the back of Dean’s neck, inhaling the familiar, salty-sweet scent just between his brother’s shoulder blades. The smell is pungently mouthwatering, and Sam can’t help tasting that golden skin, a quick snake-flicker of tongue against the knobs of Dean’s spine that causes his older brother to jump and shiver.  
  
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean says with a nervous laugh. “You okay?” He tries to turn around but is held firmly in place by the large, spanning grip of Sam’s hands. It feels good – _really_ good – for reasons Sam can’t quite pin down with the swim of alcohol in his head, to physically force his brother to stay in place.  
  
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is husky. He laughs at the mimic of Dean’s voice in his own gritty, liquor-soaked tone when he says, “Yeah, I’m awesome, Dean. So great. Fucking perfect.”  
  
“Yeah, seems like it.” Dean’s voice sounds cautiously hopeful, and Sam knows that his brother is still wary after the latest blow-out between Sam and their father.  
  
It had been the worst in a long series of fights that always seem to blaze up out of nowhere. This time, Sam couldn’t remember if he’d ignited it with some smartass remark about John’s parenting skills or if his dad had started it with another accusation about Sam caring more about his grades than his family. Either way, within minutes it had escalated into broken lamp pieces and scattered weapons and the both of them shouting loudly enough to alert the entire motel complex. By that point, neither of them had been sure what they were even fighting about anymore, but their matching stubborn pride ensured that neither of them was going to back down.  
  
Just before the windows of their room had filled with spinning red and blue lights, Sam had been convinced that his old man had been ready to take a swing at him, and part of him had been eager for the throw down, ready to test his strength against his dad’s. Maybe put that son of a bitch in his place for once.  
  
As they were escorted off the property by the cops the motel manager hadn’t even warned them he was calling, Dean desperately tried to keep things from getting worse. Grabbing them both by the shirt fronts, he’d shoved his father and brother into separate sections of the Impala while trying to smooth things over with the police. Sam had watched guiltily through the car window while Dean had assured them that, _no sir, there’s no need to take us to the station, we’re getting the hell outta here, I promise you that, leaving town and you won’t ever see us again._  
  
Sam still doesn’t fully understand how Dean had managed to persuade both officers to let them go. Somehow, though, Dean had gotten them on the road and moving onto the next town, growling at them both to shut their fuckin’ pie holes so he could drive, to just stay quiet, that they were lucky the job had been over anyway when they had to blow outta town like that, and _why couldn’t they just get along for one goddamn minute_?  
  
Amazingly enough, Sam and John had stayed quiet, if for nothing else than Dean’s sake. The minute they’d made it to the next town, however, John had left them on their own to check out some vague hunting lead. That had been just fine with Sam. He’d been anxiously waiting to hear back from colleges, thankful that they weren’t too far away from the P.O. box he’d set up for his admission responses.  
  
That had been a week ago, but now he’s been accepted into Stanford with a full ride and everything’s perfect now, _so_ fucking perfect. Except that Dean doesn’t know why it’s perfect. And when Dean finds out, he is going to feel so betrayed, and just the thought of that is almost enough to sour Sam’s good mood.  
  
But since worrying about his brother’s reaction is decidedly in the wrong direction of how he wants things to go tonight, Sam quickly derails that train of thought. Instead, he concentrates on the buoyant feeling that he’ll soon be free, making his own life, calling his own shots. Maybe even convincing Dean to come along, too, once he sees that it’s possible. They may have been born into this life, but that doesn’t mean they have to die in it.  
  
Sam laughs because everything seems funny right now, including death, and he puts his forehead on Dean’s spine again. This time, Dean stays carefully still, and Sam feels a glow of triumph swell his chest, certain in the knowledge that Dean will finally let him cross this line tonight. Sam’s been thinking about this a lot lately, trying to decide if it’s fair of him to start this when he knows he’ll be leaving soon. But he needs something to anchor them, something that will make it impossible for Dean to throw himself into the hunting life and forget all about his little brother.  
  
“You been drinking Sammy-boy?” Dean inquires slowly while Sam leans his cheek against the warmth of his brother’s back, still breathing in the scents of leather and soap and liquor that always cling to Dean’s skin. There’s an added sheen of sweat that makes Dean taste and smell even better, and Sam’s finding it addictive as hell.  
  
“Yeah. What of it? You do it all the time,” Sam says into Dean’s fragrant skin. “M’not drunk, though,” he says firmly, needing Dean to understand that. It’s important. Sam had been keeping track of the level in the bottle, trying to stay just south of truly plastered, although he’s still miles away from sobriety.  
  
“If you say so,” Dean replies in that infuriatingly placating way of his that always makes Sam want to slam Dean into the nearest semi-stable surface and kiss the false assurance right out of him.  
  
“No, _really_ , Dean. I’m not drunk,” Sam insists because Dean doesn’t seem to believe him. But fuck Dean and fuck whatever he thinks he knows about Sam. Dean hadn’t been at the bar. He doesn’t know. And Sam would know if he were drunk, right? Snorting, Sam allows, “I mean, yeah, I had a few drinks. I’m celebrating.”  
  
When he lets his mouth run warm and wet on the back of Dean’s neck, he’s pleased when Dean doesn’t even flinch, just sits up straighter and lets Sam use his tongue to explore the spaces between the freckles on Dean’s shoulders. Under his breath, Dean mumbles something about Sam going full canine on him, but there’s no real heat behind the words, and Sam can feel Dean’s resolve breaking like bones under his skin. Sam loves it when Dean gives in like this, ready to give him whatever he wants, offering his whole self with a naked altruism that always brings a flush to Sam’s skin, turning him proud and guilty and resentful all at once.  
  
“What are you celebrating?” Dean asks curiously, and _shit_ , Sam hadn’t really been paying attention to what he had been saying, transfixed instead by the constellations underneath his tongue. Sam can’t resist sliding his hands across the front of Dean’s chest. He’s so glad that Dean is already shirtless, so glad that they just hit a late-spring heat wave that’s hot enough to get Dean peeling off layers and turning on fans.  
  
Ignoring Dean’s question, Sam starts slurring pleas into Dean’s back. _You gonna let me do this tonight, Dean? Please? You gotta know how bad I want this. You want this too, right? Tell me you want this._ And to his amazement, Dean just puts his head down, nodding to everything Sam says, his chest pumping deep inhalations of air and his words low and muted when he says, “Sure, Sammy. Whatever will make you happy.”  
  
And that’s not it at all. Sam knows Dean wants this just as much as him. He knows he’s not the only one. But Dean would never do this unless it was one-hundred percent Sam’s choice, and there’s a chance Dean might stop this whole thing if Sam pushes Dean too hard.  
  
So Sam slides his hands up to turn Dean’s face to the side then latches his mouth onto his brother’s. Dean’s mouth is so much better than Sam could have hoped for, all warm, pliable, peach-soft flesh. Those fuckin’ erotically plump lips have served as the fodder for most of Sam’s wet dreams since he’d hit puberty. He can barely get through a day without obsessively watching everything they touch. Beer bottles. Pens. _Straws_. Diner food that turn them glossy with grease. It’s all so fuckin’ obscene and, as far as Sam can tell, it’s not even intentional. But knowing that hasn’t stopped Sam from getting blinding hard whenever he watches his brother lick traces of sugar off his fingertips, pink tongue catching tiny white granules that he swallows down with appreciative, happy hums.  
  
When Dean’s tongue slides across the seam of Sam’s lips, teasing just inside, Sam moans like he’s just hit the edge of adolescence again, all wanton, inexperienced lust that he doesn’t even know how to begin to hold back. It’s too late for Dean to be Sam’s first time, but that was never the point. Sam just wants Dean, always has, and he’ll take his brother in whatever form Dean is willing to give.  
  
Sam pulls back for a second, just in time to see a flash of terror cross his brother’s face, so quick and subtle that only Sam would recognize it. He’s not sure what specific guilt or worry it stems from, but he’s determined to make Dean forget his responsibilities for a little while. So he moves around the chair that his brother’s sitting in and falls into his lap, straddling Dean’s thighs, which are covered by a loose pair of sweats. Dean’s hands slip around Sam’s back, warm and comforting and silently consenting.  
  
With both hands on Dean’s chest, Sam traces the edge of Dean’s mouth with his own, restraining himself from going in hard and aggressive like he’d prefer. But it’s worth it to hear the muted choke Dean makes when Sam’s fingers brush against his nipple, the long sigh Dean gives when Sam mouths down his neck.  
  
He knows how his brother likes this. He’s seen Dean pressed against countless girls, tongue moving like slow drips of honey and hands roaming so smooth and light that it never seems to occur to any of them to say ‘no’ when his flingers slip up oh-so-gently to press into their soft breasts.  
  
Dean’s hands have already gone underneath Sam’s shirt, fingers dancing across the naked skin of Sam’s back. Sam rocks into that touch, rolling his hips until he feels his brother’s erection swell through the soft fabric of Dean’s sweats and bleed heat through Sam’s thick denim. When one of Dean’s hands brushes the edge of Sam’s jeans, turning to carefully dip just underneath the band, Sam arches his back encouragingly and mumbles against Dean’s lips, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. Do it, Dean. Want you to strip me. Wanna feel your hands all over me.”  
  
Dean’s hands go deeper, and Sam reaches down to pop the button on his jeans to make it easier for Dean to slide the material down. Sam lifts up enough for Dean to get his jeans and underwear down so Sam can kick them off then settles into his brother again, grinding into Dean’s crotch while Dean pulls off his shirt so Sam’s entirely naked on Dean’s lap.  
  
Dean’s hands fall down to Sam’s ass, kneading it encouragingly as Sam continues to dry hump in deep thrusts that have them both panting. He thinks Dean would probably be content to come like this, and if there were any guarantee for this to happen again, Sam might have been, too. But Sam’s always been greedy, especially when it comes to his brother. If this is the only time, Sam wants it all.  
  
“Can I, Dean?” Sam asks, teeth dragging against his brother’s neck and his hands going inside his sweats, hoping Dean understands what he wants. “Please, Dean. Just… just wanna be inside you. Think about it all the damn time. _God_ , I – will you let me?”  
  
He can feel Dean go still underneath him, body tensed for half a second before his brother nods, chin bumping against the side of Sam’s head.  
  
“Sure, Sammy,” he says, a five-minute-delayed echo of himself. “Whatever you want.”  
  
For a minute, Sam feels a bubble of anger at his brother – at Dean refusing to admit that he wants this, wants _Sam_. But words have never meant much to Dean anyway, not when lies and broken promises were as common fixtures in their lives as salt lines and classic rock. Sam reminds himself that he’s _seen_ the way his brother looks at him. He’s felt how Dean leans into his space, hovering within arm’s reach like a meteor caught in Sam’s gravity, hands crashing into Sam’s body whenever Dean can reasonably get away with it. And he remembers the way Dean’s lips tasted, New Year’s Eve, 1999, when they’d been watching the Times Square Ball drop on TV. When midnight had hit, Dean had pulled Sam over to his side of the couch and kissed him on the mouth, his green eyes soft and alcohol-bright and his mouth tasting of cherry pie and hard lemonade. Sam still has no idea how long Dean’s lips were on his, but long before he was ready for that kiss to end, Dean had pulled back, carded a hand through Sam’s hair, and fell asleep.  
  
It’s not just Sam.  
  
And because he knows this, knows what Dean won’t say but wants anyway, he slides off Dean’s lap, grabs his brother’s hand, and makes Dean follow him to their bedroom.  
  
He spreads Dean out against the thin, soft-worn covers, pulls off the sweatpants (no underwear beneath, and that’s hotter than it should be), and finds the lube his brother’s got stashed in the outer-pocket of his bag. Sam’s always known it was there, just like he knows that Dean’s partners haven’t always been girls. Although from the flush that darkens the tops of Dean’s cheeks, his brother might not have known that Sam was aware of it.  
  
When Sam’s finger breaches the tight pucker of Dean’s ass, Dean’s head slams back into the mattress, back arching up. He’s way too tense, so Sam leans down, kissing his way up his brother’s stomach, fingers brushing ridges of abs and ribs. His other hand continues to rub and soften Dean’s hole, waiting until Dean’s more relaxed to work his fingers inside.  
  
By the time Sam’s got two fingers crooked into his brother, Dean is squirming against the blankets, shoulders twisting into the mattress and eyes fluttering back. One hand is clamped onto Sam’s bicep, grip hard and bruising, while his head’s buried in his own shoulder. Grabbing his brother’s jaw, Sam turns Dean’s face back towards him.  
  
“This okay?” Sam asks, not sure if it’s pleasure or pain making Dean bite his lower lip into a dark red swell. “ _You_ okay?”  
  
“M’good,” Dean answers back, voice strained. “It’s… fuck, your _fingers_ , Sam. Need a goddamn permit to use ‘em, they’re so fuckin’ _long_. Feels good. _Really_ good. Don’t stop.”  
  
Relieved, Sam slams his mouth against Dean’s, adding a third finger and waiting until Dean starts fucking himself into Sam’s touch, soft noises stuttering up his throat with each thrust. When Sam’s adds his pinky, just to watch the impossible stretch, Dean whines softly, his voice an impatient huff and his chest and face flushed as he tells Sam to _quit dicking around and fuck him already_. Chuckling quietly at Dean’s choice of phrasing, Sam pulls his fingers out, moving back to squeeze more lube into his hand and slick up his cock.  
  
Dean tries to flip himself over, to make Sam fuck him from behind, probably intending to hide his face in the quilted comforter. But Sam grabs him by the shoulders – maybe harder than he needs to – and shoves Dean’s back against the mattress, jaw tight and eyes narrowed in warning. Dean doesn’t try to move himself again.  
  
Sam pushes his cock inside with a deep exhale, moving Dean’s knees up as he gives his brother a minute to adjust before setting up a deep, steady rhythm of thrusts.  
  
Dean quickly falls in time with Sam’s pace, rocking and gasping loudly, his hands claws on Sam’s back. When Sam angles himself just right, Dean jolts and make a sharp sound, his fingernails digging harder, and Sam can feel the too-good burn of scratches developing across his shoulder blades. Sam’s hands steady themselves on the mattress sideling Dean’s chest so he can balance and keep driving into the spot that makes his brother moan. The sounds coming from Dean grow steadily louder until Sam’s sure whoever’s on the other side of the wall is going to call management soon.  
  
Sam can’t, however, find it in him to care. He keeps up the brutal pace, fucking into Dean’s tight ass until all the pleasure singing across his nerves finally surges together and he’s spilling hot inside his brother. His arms wrap tight around Dean while he comes, filling him hard and deep and tethering a piece of Sam inside so that there’s no possible way Dean can forget about him once he’s gone.  
  
When he pulls back, he can see Dean’s cock, blood-dark and curving up Dean’s stomach and dribbling wet into his bellybutton, looking ready to shoot off at the slightest touch. Grabbing Dean’s hands to keep his brother from finishing himself, Sam scoots down so he can catch his brother’s cock in his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks and running his tongue over the head until Dean makes a loud gasp and there’s bitter, salty come splattered across Sam’s lips.  
  
Catching Dean’s eye, Sam slowly licks his lips, dragging the bitter taste of his brother inside his mouth before swallowing deeply. A low, loud exhale pushes up from Dean’s chest as he stares at Sam, want clear in his eyes despite his very-spent cock beneath Sam’s chin. Dean shakes a hand out of Sam’s tight grip so he can thumb at a smear of wet come on Sam’s cheek, rubbing it into Sam’s skin.  
  
Too tired and lazy to grab a wash cloth, Sam settles for picking up the nearest shirt (his) and wiping them both off.  
  
Dean hasn’t said anything since Sam pulled out. When Sam looks at Dean again, his green eyes are unfocused, his face blank and looking a little shell-shocked, like he’s not quite sure how he let this happen. Knowing that there’s very little he can say to keep his brother from the inevitable mental self-flagellation, Sam wipes off the come from between Dean’s thighs then leans down to work a hard and wet kiss into Dean’s mouth, hoping to remind Dean how very good and consensual this all was. Dean lets Sam kiss him, mouth moving with more mechanical instinct than enthusiasm.  
  
Sam starts to get up. There’s no telling when their dad will get back, and he’s not sure if Dean is already starting to regret this.  
  
But Dean grabs hold of his arm the moment he sits up, tugging him down hard, and demanding in a tired voice, “Stay, Sammy.”  
  
“But Dad – ”  
  
“I don’t care.” There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that sounds like desperation, and when Sam turns to look at his brother, Dean looks like he’s back to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, as resigned and hopeless as Atlas himself. “Stay,” he repeats, licking his used, swollen lips in that nervous way he has as he tugs on Sam’s arm again. His voice cracks a tiny bit when he adds, “Please.”  
  
Nodding, Sam sits back down.  
  
“Dean, I need to tell you something,” he blurts out, ready to spill everything about the letters and Stanford and all his plans. But before he can say anything, Dean surges forward, sucking the words right out of his mouth. Sam makes another small noise when Dean’s hand moves around his hip, grabbing him just above his ass and pulling him close. Then, just as suddenly, Dean pulls away and takes a deep breath in.  
  
“Just go to sleep, Sam.”  
  
Turning away, Dean draws Sam’s arm around his chest, settling them both so that Sam’s got his front pressed to Dean’s back. The haze of alcohol is almost entirely gone and, all at once, Sam realizes that for all his carefulness, he’d never actually fooled his brother. Dean already knows.


End file.
